


when i step out i'm gonna do you in

by Trojie



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Endytophilia, Inception Bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:01:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25666360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: Arthur is, as always, a fashion plate. Eames doesn't want to spoil it.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 125
Collections: Inception Trope/Kink Bingo 2020





	when i step out i'm gonna do you in

**Author's Note:**

> Tiptoeing my way back into the fandom and the porn >.>
> 
> Yes, the title is from 'Sharp-Dressed Man' by ZZ Top. Of course. How could I not??

The thing is, Arthur looks obscenely good in suits.

It's not even a particularly original fucking observation. Plenty of people sigh after Arthur's arse in fine wool or crisp linen or even, once (in Eames's experience) a pair of nylon board shorts. It's a major source of industry gossip - whose head Arthur has turned lately. And Eames has resented having the same weakness as so many other people in the dreaming business for so many years that he's mostly stopped reacting when Arthur flaunts his ridiculous backside and his more ridiculous, very expensive, suits. 

He hasn't managed to stop looking, though. That's Arthur's power, to keep everybody playing along. He's the best, oh, the very best. Eames has to admire him. He knows a thing or two about what people want, and giving it to them, but right now Arthur is a masterclass. 

Arthur runs his hand over the back of his neck, peering at the architect's model laid out in front of him, delicately removing bits of wall and putting them back to inspect how the traps are made. It cants his body to the perfect contrapposto, specifically when viewed exactly from the spot where Eames is sitting. 

His shirt is new, Eames notices. As is his belt, warm brown leather that matches or complements everything else in his ensemble du jour. The trousers are a favourite pair, old friends to Eames, who regularly berates himself for keeping a mental catalogue of Arthur's wardrobe but again, can't seem to stop. He tells himself it's a forger's eye for detail.

He also tells himself it's the action of a sad little man bare steps away from being a stalker, and that he should stop, for all the good that does. Just like Alice in Wonderland, he gives himself very good advice, but he very seldom follows it.

Arthur knows he's being watched. He slides his hand down to his side, hooks his thumb in his pocket, and casts a sly eye sideways for a split of a second, meeting Eames's gaze, and smirking.

The thing is.

Eames has been in the throes of a dry spell for more months now than he would like to count. 

And he found a hotel room key underneath his Moleskine this morning. 

***

'You're not wearing a tie today,' says Eames, already shrugging his shirt off. Arthur rolls his eyes, but there's a smile playing under his skin. Eames can tell there is, because he can see the first hint of dimples, even though the mouth is a straight and serious line. 

'Yeah, well, I've learned it's better,' says Arthur, 'to not present you with temptations, Mister Eames. I figured that principle might carry over to extracurriculars.'

'Don't worry,' says Eames, running a finger down the line of perfect pearly buttons. 'I have no intentions of messing up your outfit, darling.' 

He lets his hand ghost lower, over the understated brassy belt buckle, to the crisp seams and pleats below, to feel in glorious detail how Arthur reacts to being touched there. His dick twitches against Eames's palm, fills enough to be noticeable, and it either spoils or improves the line of his trousers. It's all a matter of perspective. 

Eames looks him up and down, and decides on 'improvement'.

But further improvements can always be made. 

Not big ones, just details. Little … tweaks. Arthur is still the perfect fashion plate he was in the office, a mannequin built for high-end menswear. Two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up - not totally formal, obviously, but still … arranged. Deliberate, as if everything Arthur does isn't deliberate. 

'I don't want to spoil the centrefold spread,' Eames murmurs, fingers twitching through opening up Arthur's fly, gently, subtly. He doesn't open the top button, just eases Arthur out from inside with equal reverence due to both the requirements of fashion and of cock. 'But I have this feeling you'd rather not make a mess in your very fine trousers. Hmm?'

Arthur rolls his eyes, takes Eames by the wrist, and pulls. 'Drycleaners exist,' he says. 'Discreet ones, even.'

The feel of said very fine trousers and a very fine cock pressed up against Eames's backside is tantalising. 'That's no fun,' Eames says, leaning into the feel of Arthur's hard body and fancy clothes. Arthur keeps Eames's wrist behind his back, and slides his other hand up Eames's body, all the way from his thigh, over one hip, along the central line of his body, all the way to splay his fingers loosely over Eames's throat.

'Is this all you're asking for?' Arthur murmurs into his ear warmly. 'You don't want to strip me down, ogle all scars you've been imagining?'

'Why do you think I've been imagining scars?' Eames asks him, hoarse with want already.

'Everyone seems to,' Arthur says, shrugging. The way it makes his shirt ride against Eames's bare back is unspeakable. 'I'm always sorry to disappoint them. Maybe I should go fight a tiger or something.'

'You're perfect just as you are, darling,' says Eames. 'Scars or no scars, just like this.'

'Just like this?' Arthur rolls his hips. Eames struggles to widen his stance, to coax Arthur's wet dick to find the place he wants it to settle. 'You can't even see me.'

'I don't need to see you,' Eames groans, tightening his thighs as Arthur begins to thrust against him. _I see you every fucking day_ , he doesn't say. _I can conjure you up in my head_. 'I can feel you, _fuck_ \--'

Arthur makes an interested noise in his ear, and pushes Eames until he stumbles up against the wall. 'Like this?' he asks, suddenly _shoving_ his dick between Eames's thighs, grinding Eames's hips against the wall. Eames has to use his hands to keep his face and his cock from abrading themselves against the flock wallpaper. He's not jerking himself off - he can't, Arthur's rabbitting hips give him no space, and he isn't going to fucking need to, anyway. Shit. _Shit_ \-- he shoves his other hand down as well, lets his cheek take the brunt of the impact, his mouth lax, full of soft noises he can't help, and both hands helplessly just trying to keep his steel-hard cock from getting fucking ground off against the wall. 

He's so close. It hurts so beautifully. Arthur's shirt is so silky-soft against his sweating, febrile back muscles and the head of his dick keeps bumping Eames's balls.

'Yeah, like that,' he pants, and Arthur's grin against the soft skin under his ear feels like a wolf's, and it's too too much, his whole body is being ground to powder against this stupid expensive wallpaper, he feels lit up, on fire. He's sweating so hard, Arthur shirt sticks to him. 'Like that, oh, Arthur, fucking - like that, _like that_ \--'

His come drips through his fingers and he must wrench his body through some kind of contortions as the orgasm rolls through him because Arthur stops thigh-fucking him, pulls back a smidge, and Eames falls to his knees against the wall. 

'Christ, Arthur,' he groans into the mess he left on the decor, twisting himself until he can lean back and gaze all the way up Arthur's beautiful haute couture body. 'Put it in my mouth before I expire, darling, please.'

' _Darling_ ,' says Arthur, softly and sarcastically, and Eames can't process the emotion he puts into the word because, thank god, there's a dick in his mouth at last. He can do tasks. He can do this. Arthur curls his strangely gentle, big hands around Eames's skull, and fucks his face with a sweetness that's perfect, just like the ferality of two moments ago was perfect. 

Arthur's trousers are soft cloth, but they're rough enough to burn against already rubbed-raw skin. His shirt is wet, but still silky, where Eames's hands clutch at it. Eames, hollowing his cheeks and softening his jaw, is good at giving people what they want. Arthur is better, it turns out, at giving them what they need. 

What Eames needs, apparently, is to be coaxed off, to be laid back against the wall with a hand in his hair, gasping for breath, while Arthur thumbs his lower lip down, and then strokes his own dick. 'Close your eyes,' he murmurs hotly to Eames. 'Hush, and close your eyes.'

Eames didn't even realise he was making noise.

Arthur pulls back, fisting his cock, and Eames closes his eyes. His face is wet within the next moment. And that's what he needed.

***

'Is it a thing, for you?' Arthur asks afterwards, having poured Eames into the bed like a liquid and curled up around him. 'The clothes, I mean?'

Eames is having trouble really processing, but he shrugs. 'Fucked plenty of naked people,' he says. 'I like your clothes.'

There's a long, warm quietness.

'I like you, like this,' says Arthur softly, into the fuzz at the nape of Eames's neck. His shirt is damp, clammy, it clings to Eames like his skin would.

'Naked?' Eames asks, wryly.

'Honest.'

'I'm a liar to my bones,' Eames warns him.

'That sounds like the truth.'

Eames knows Arthur is smiling. He doesn't need to see it.


End file.
